The First Dance
by Certh
Summary: *25/10 - CHAPTER 3 EDITED* Part III of the Colours of Dawn series. In truth, those moments that forever alter the direction of one's life are remarkably subtle.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The excitement of the previous day caused by the King Elessar's coronation hadn't yet completely subsided. And, as with any radical change in the line of succession, there were those who were sceptical of the new ruler, deeming him a stranger to them and to the affairs of Gondor. But the majority of the population welcomed the heir of Isildur, especially those of the elderly who had eventually recognised him as the much-loved Captain Thorongil from years past.

In the days following her own return to the White City, Idrin had manoeuvred working at the Houses of Healing and managing domestic affairs. She divided her time between her duties as a healer, helping the housekeeper with the cleaning-up of her family's townhouse on the fifth level and assisting Faramir with supervising the preparations done within the seventh circle, as well as the finding of foodstuffs for the returning armies. The last tasks were the most tedious, but she tackled them almost joyfully: it had been a long time since she had assumed such responsibilities. Preparations were made for receiving the new sovereign and housing the high-ranking individuals who would be staying in the Citadel; the King's House was opened and every corner of it was thoroughly cleaned; each wagonload of necessary provisions arrived from the war-unaffected regions was checked before meat, fish and grain were distributed to kitchens and storage-rooms.

Presently, as she did her part in putting the books of the Citadel's library back on their shelves, the bubbling emotion that had suddenly made its appearance the day before settled in her stomach again. She had spent more than half her life in the seventh circle, helping her aunt run the household: giving instructions to cooks and manservants and maids, overseeing preparations for feasts and arranging housing for visiting dignitaries. After her aunt had passed, those responsibilities had fallen on her, and she had managed as best she could with the most precious help of the housekeeper to the Steward's House, while continuing her work as a healer. She had been, in essence, the lady of the house; now, with the King's coming, Idrin couldn't help feeling she was being displaced somehow.

She had known things would be different once the King sat his throne, and she had had weeks to reconcile herself with the fact, but it wasn't until the coronation that reality fully sank in. Her position would not be the same again and that realisation stung. She had become so used to her status over the years that she now felt a wave of indignation course through her at the change. Keen as she had been to see the King returned as old tales promised, she had not been ready for the alteration to her standing in the Citadel, and the sting on her pride surprised her. The emotion bordered on ire, and she knew she was being immature, selfish even.

"Do be careful, Merilwen. Those scrolls are hundreds of years old," she snapped at the young maid working a few feet from her. The curly-haired girl met her eyes for the briefest of moments and then dropped her gaze, her handling of the parchments becoming more slow and mindful. Idrin exhaled and made to look down at the stack of volumes on the table in front of her.

The Citadel's library had been the last place to be cleaned, and rather belatedly so: the more immediate matters of catering and arranging for housing had driven that need from Idrin's mind. It was only two days past that it struck her that the small library would also have to be cleaned. Due to infrequent use and – she was loath to admit – relative neglect, the books had to be taken off the shelves and dusted, the shelves themselves, lamps and candle sconces had to be polished, the floors washed. Late in realising that those housed on the seventh level might want to explore said library, Idrin nearly panicked at the thought of having to do so much in so little time. Refurbishing would take more than one day, everything had to look perfect, and she knew that could not be completed before the King's entering the City. She misliked that fact, frustrated at herself for not having remembered the library sooner, but time couldn't be rewound.  
Thankfully, no-one had disturbed the belated undertaking: the shelves were dusted; every wooden surface was treated with linseed oil; the bronze candle holders and lamps shone after their cleaning with vinegar; the floor was scrubbed.

Placing the old books, maps and heaps of scrolls back on their shelves was time-consuming: great care had to be taken for the task because many of them had become dry and stiff with age and might yield dust after mishandling. It was nearly mid-afternoon now, and not many shelves were left to be filled.

The quiet chatter of the domestics around her toned down into silence and Idrin turned towards the doors at the sound of footsteps. The last vestiges of exasperation on her face melted away, but the fading glint in her eyes lingered.

Her mood wasn't lost on Éothain: a guarded expression flitted across his features, but he shook it off and went on to voice what he had been previously thinking. "This is a beautiful library."

"Wait until you see the City Library on the fourth level," said Idrin, her voice softer. Then she looked at him curiously, as if suddenly recalling something, her own expression one of slight puzzlement.

The Rider understood the reason behind her hesitation to speak what was on her mind and offered a humourless twitch of his lips. "The only notable collection of books in the Riddermark is held in Meduseld: Morwen Queen brought many tomes and scrolls with her from her homeland, because she could not abide to live in a place without any. But we have lived without books for hundreds of years; knowledge and lore and wisdom can still be passed on to the younger generations in song and tale alone."

He had not raised his voice or sounded affronted, yet Idrin flushed and dropped her eyes. "I am sorry," she said slowly. She had known the Rohirrim wrote no books, and thus believed that a place such as a library would be completely foreign to them, books and scrolls an unfamiliar sight to most. She hadn't considered the possibility of Thengel's Gondorian queen trying to introduce them to the written word.

Éothain saw her discomfort, the eyes not quite meeting his. "It is true that only those of rank can read and write, but that is of no consequence," he said. "No doubt, that we are able to exist without these must sound very strange to others." He attempted a grin.

"It does, to me at least," the young woman ventured. "It is difficult to imagine life without books, but I guess one must experience a certain way of life before drawing conclusions." For her the written word was the only means with the aid of which history could be accurately preserved, past achievements recorded correctly, knowledge stored securely. It seemed that was not so for the people of Rohan, and she realised that to preserve a whole peoples' history and tradition without the slightest use of quill and parchment was a great achievement indeed.  
Her hand found the leather binding of the tome nearest to her and long fingers brushed the cover absent-mindedly.

The movement alerted Éothain to the fact that his coming into the small library had interrupted work. He was aware of the sounds the domestics around them made as they silently went back to filling empty shelves with books and scrolls and stray leaves of parchment, but he was also aware of the minute, curious glances occasionally thrown their way. "Can I help?" He nodded towards the neat piles of books on the table.

Idrin was drawn from her thoughts by his addressing her. "Oh, yes, all help will be appreciated." She moved to show him where certain manuscripts should be placed, as many and more titles on the inventory lists fastened to the sides of the great bookcases were written in Sindarin. They worked in silence for some time.

"I thought I would find you at the Houses of Healing. I had gone there to visit my countrymen."

The Rohir's voice made Idrin look up from her work. "I was at the Houses for most of the morning. I left after the fifth hour to come here and help with the books," she explained.

Éothain set a handful of scrolls onto a shelf. "You have not had much rest these past days." It was as much a statement as it was a question.

Idrin looked at him over her shoulder. "There were many preparations to be done; Faramir asked for my help," she replied. She looked down at the last volumes in front of her and then at the bookcase. The tomes had to be placed on the topmost shelf along with their mates. Her gaze lingered, afterwards shifting to the ladder propped against the wood. A moment later she turned to Éothain; he was watching her. "Could you put these on the top shelf?" She gestured at the books. "I do not like unprotected heights."

If her words had caught him by surprise, Éothain did not show it. He reached for the first book. "Of course."

He did not question her on her fear, even though it did seem peculiar at first: he knew most people either feared heights with a passion, be they protected by some form of barrier or not, or were completely unaffected by them. He had never before heard of a person whose anxiety of heights depended on the presence of a solid protection between oneself and the void.

He watched Idrin glance at the titles on the covers as she handed each book to him, leafing through some and occasionally pausing on a passage. Her absorption was mesmerising. The question came to his lips and he couldn't help asking it. "What is it about them that touches you so?"

She looked up at him, understanding what he referred to. "They make the world more magical," came the simple answer, a glimmer in her eyes.

Éothain smiled at the rapt expression on her face.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I am ashamed to admit that I've only recently realised there was an important issue I didn't properly address in _Alfirin_: the matter of sorting the wounded coming in from the battles. While it had always been at the back of my mind, it never got to be sufficiently explained on paper. That little blunder has now been fixed, so look for the small insert near the end of Chapter 5 of said story.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The sun was moderately hot when they left the Citadel library.

"I was acquainted with your sisters-by-law today," Éothain began as their feet led them towards the embrasure at a leisurely pace. "And your niece is a very sweet child." It had been quite a chance encounter: he had gone down to the city's fifth circle to meet with Arvinion and Damhir at their father's townhouse, shortly after the bell in the Citadel struck the third hour from the rising of the sun, and had found a young girl playing with a tabby cat before the door. Two dark-haired women came from within then, accompanied by the very brethren he sought. The introductions were made over refreshments, with the eldest brother's daughter sneaking curious glances at him.

Idrin turned to look at him. "We were expecting them to arrive tomorrow," she said. Arvinion's wife, Faervel, had sent word to communicate as much. Her and Gladhwen's early arrival made the healer realise just how great was their desire to reunite with their husbands, after being apart for nearly two months. That particular feeling was something she herself had yet to fully comprehend, but she was told she would once she was wedded. Her thought shifted and a smile tugged at her lips. "Yes, Orien is an adorable girl," she commented. After a moment of quiet, belated realisation came to her and she spoke again: "This early arrival has left my brothers preoccupied and postponed the promised exploration of the city, I presume?" She had known Arvinion and Damhir meant to show Éothain around Minas Tirith that morning, yet she had seen neither all day.

"Yes, but that is no great matter," the Rider was quick to reassure her. "I have made my own way about the Citadel, saw a bit more of the library and the White Tower and the bath-house, and have seen the jeweller's shop on the sixth level." Of those, the small bath-house located within the seventh circle – not far from the lodgings he himself had been allocated as a captain of considerable rank – and destined for the use of visiting high guests and dignitaries, was a feat of true craftsmanship. Designed by the Númenóreans, Éothain was told when he put forth his question, and supplied with water from a vast lake within the mountain that was fed by underground springs.

Idrin shook her head. "Discovering a city without a guide is no fun. Since my brothers cannot, I shall be your guide today."

"Will you not be needed back at the Houses?" asked the Rider.

"I have spoken to the Warden about working fewer hours today so that I could attend other responsibilities; I will compensate tomorrow."

Éothain felt pleased by that reply: it hadn't taken him long to realise that he had grown fond of the healer's company, in a genuine and undemanding way. An exploration of Mundburg with her would perhaps be more interesting than with her brothers.

Thus, they made their way towards the tunnel that sloped down to the sixth level. With Éothain having already visited the jeweller's, there was not truly anything else of great interest to see in that part of the city: most of the shops were located in the lower circles, while the upper levels largely held the houses of the more affluent. They descended therefore to the fifth circle, with Idrin pointing out those works of stone-masonry she thought pleasing and graceful, and answering the Rohir's enquiries about the fair, strangely-wrought inscriptions carved over many arched gates and wide doorways.

They had passed the weaver's shop on their way back from the northward part of the fifth level – a two-storey establishment which held the owner's lodging on the upper floor and catered to those of refined taste – when Idrin pointed. The building she stopped at was of modest size, flanked by a tall mansion on either side, the door and frames of its large, glazed windows painted blue. A climbing wisteria covered much of the wall that faced the main street, its vibrant colours lending life to the white stone. The long tables behind the windows displayed a variety of vases and ornate bowls and even little animals made from tinted glass, and the wooden signboard that hung beside the lantern outside marked it as a glassblower's workplace, in both Westron and Sindarin.

"When I was little I used to come here often whenever we visited the City," said the healer, looking into the shop with a tender expression on her face. "I could stay here for hours, just staring at all the baubles made from coloured glass. Sometimes, the shop-keeper would even let me watch while he worked at his furnace, and I remember thinking it was so fascinating, to be able to create glass from sand, to shape that molten mass into such designs. It still is."

As she spoke, Éothain took in the softened features of the young woman beside him, the glimmer in her eyes. She was so different from the person he had glimpsed when he walked into the Citadel's library – the sharp tone and the firm gaze were things he had not expected to see her display. But then, people had many sides to them, and it was that which made them interesting.

"Those little critters are exceptionally fashioned indeed," he said. "Glass-makers in Rohan aren't given to such practices of crafting ornaments or, in fact, tinting glass. Such fragile adornments are not practical at all."

"That is what most people in Gondor think, too. Minas Tirith is the only place where glass animals are made, by one person alone... Still, they are beautiful." A brief pause and a quick glance at the shop window followed. "Come, we have a whole city to see." Idrin shook herself and began walking towards the fifth-level gate.

As they passed, they saw the front garden of her father's townhouse was void of people – her family had most likely retired for a short afternoon rest. A soft sound alerted them to movement, and they turned to see a white-and-brown tabby cat perched on the low wall by the entryway. Idrin's lips curved into a wide smile and she reached a hand toward the animal. "Hello, my love."

The cat, not quite fully grown yet, purred loudly and leant against her as her fingers found the sensitive spots behind ears and under jaw. "I have neglected you recently, haven't I?" While the cat moved to expose more of its body to her touch, the healer turned to Éothain. "I had our housekeeper take him with her to Lossarnach when the city was evacuated. I wouldn't have been able to care for him properly had he stayed here with me. Then, the preparations for the King's coming and the return of the armies kept me busy; and with Orien's visiting I decided to have him temporarily relocated from the Steward's House to our townhouse – she's very fond of him."

A fluffy tail swept past her cheek unexpectedly, causing her to jump. She gave the animal a last pet and moved to wash her hands at the water-basin always kept just inside the garden. "That's enough for now," she told the kitten looking expectantly up at her. "I've a prior engagement. You will have to wait until tonight."

The Rider of Rohan studied the healer in amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He hadn't previously been aware of her fondness for cats, and that display of affection was agreeable to watch. It brought to mind the bond between the horsemen of an _éored_ and their mounts: all Rohirric knights harboured strong feelings for their destriers, deeming them much more than just animals.

When Idrin resumed walking once more, leaving the tabby kitten watching after their retreating forms, Éothain fell into step beside her easily.

The main attractions to be found in the city's fourth circle were the timekeeper's workshop – an oblong structure, with a homely interior boasting a wide selection of water clocks, sandglasses and candle clocks; the luthier's shop with its finely-made wooden stringed instruments; and the large inn called _The White Horn_. Doubling as a tavern, the latter garnered customers from all social classes, owing to its strategic location halfway between the lower and upper levels of the City. Presently, the establishment – as well as the other inns on the third and first circle – was overflowing with blond and dark-haired men.

In addition to the returned citizens and refugees from the plundered fields of the Pelennor, the flood of soldiers brought a new, unfamiliar energy to Minas Tirith. The Tower of Guard, for a long time accommodating only half the people that could have easily dwelt within its walls, once again swelled with much noise. Many an empty house had been opened and cleaned, and previously silent courtyards now rang with voices.  
Not a stall in the stables on the sixth level was left unoccupied, and any others that could be found throughout the city were full as well. Paddocks were built just outside the walls, nearer the mountain where grass still grew.

Even so, there was a good number of uninhabited houses to be seen, halls shrouded in silence and yards left untended. This Éothain noted, and he turned to his companion. "The city was built to house more people than it currently does."

Idrin let out a deep breath at his observation. "Yes. Decline was set into motion centuries ago, with the Kin-strife. It began in 1437, when Castamir, a distant relative of the then-King Eldacar, usurped the throne. Eldacar was of mixed blood, his mother being the daughter of the King of Rhovanion, and many Gondorians of Númenórean descent thought this mixing of blood a slight. Eldacar managed to win back the throne ten years later, but the war left Osgiliath devastated, made an enemy of Umbar, and weakened Gondor greatly. Then came the Great Plague, and the invasion of the Wainriders. Since that decimation, neither Minas Tirith, nor any city or town or village in Gondor has ever fully recovered."

The Rohir was looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Interpreting it as mystification, and realising what must have caused it, the healer ducked her head with a huff. "I'm sorry, I got carried away. Too many details. I've confused you."

There was the slightest hint of amusement as he shook his head. "No. I found it rather interesting, a bit digressing though it was."

The vestiges of surprise she had attempted to conceal at his first word gave way to a relieved little twitch of her lips, and the sobering effect of the Rider's forthrightness made her register she needed to work on that habit of giving long-winded explanations.

"Gondorians thought those of Northman blood inferior, then?"

Idrin was surprised by the darkness in his voice, and the deeper meaning of his question brought an uncomfortable feeling. She tried to phrase her reply with care. "A few did. It was then unheard of that a King or his heir should wed one not of Númenórean descent – that was a means to preserve the longer lifespan and... dignity claimed by those of pure blood." She paused, considering.

"People should be judged for their quality of character," Éothain said slowly, glancing at her.

"They should," she agreed. Her eyes focused ahead in earnest once more. "Oh," she exclaimed, her train of thought changing. "The market's one of the most absorbing places in the City."

Éothain followed her line of sight. They had passed down into the third level and reached Mundburg's marketplace: an open space, stretched between the gates to the fourth and second circle, stalls lining the wide pavements on either side of the main road. From flower-sellers and farmers, bakers and poulterers, to cloth-merchants and jewellers, it seemed to offer every kind of commodity. Many shops stood behind the stalls, and the Rider saw hanging signs naming each one: a butcher, a chandler, a potter, a baker, a seamstress. Farther off, where houses took the place of shops, he could make out a tavern thrusting its front invitingly into the road. At present, the market hummed with voices, and he saw many flaxen-haired heads mingling with the dark ones at the stalls. Despite the fact that the local produce had suffered because of the war, life went on.

They perused the first few booths leisurely, not speaking much, when Éothain turned to her. "Will you help me choose a small gift for my mother and sister? I would like to take back something from Gondor."

"What would they like?" asked Idrin.

The Rohir had halted in front of a stall selling gloves and cloaks and was fingering a pair of riding gloves made from fine cowhide. "They are both of practical mind, and don't care much for baubles." He studied the displayed goods speculatively. "Perhaps something characteristic of the land." He swept from the booth, Idrin following.

While he pondered scarves and belts, the healer drifted to a stall some ways off. She was examining the wares on the display table when she felt the solid presence behind her. "These are both practical and pretty," Éothain commented over her shoulder.

"Mmm," Idrin murmured, her eyes fixed on an ivory comb shaped as a butterfly. She picked it up to inspect the enamelled wings. "Do you think they would like something of the sort?" She twisted her neck to look at up him.

"A gift for my lady?" The merchant's honeyed voice made her turn before the Rider could reply. He was a stocky man of average height, with beady eyes that currently flicked from her to Éothain and back again. No doubt the sight of so many Horse-lords in the City took some getting used to. Or perhaps it was that he had not expected to encounter one in such fine dress.

"Indeed, no," answered Idrin. "We are simply looking."

"It is beautiful." The Rohir took the comb from her hands, but after a moment's consideration something on the dark drape of the table caught his eye. He moved to stand beside the healer and picked up a delicate, silver-gilt hairpin with a crimson, star-shaped flower as head.

"A lovely item, sir." The merchant took a step closer to the booth. "Discreet but in style." He scanned the table briefly and retrieved something from it. "I have its mate here." He presented Éothain with the hairpin's twin.

Idrin smiled lightly. "You wanted something characteristic of Gondor and now you've found it: stonecrops grow in abundance here, wherever rock is present. They have become an unofficial symbol."¹

The Rider gave a short nod and regarded the pins thoughtfully, turning them carefully in his hands. "Yes, my sister will like them," he finally decreed. "The colour will look good on her." He lowered the hairpins onto the table.

"Would your mother wear something like this?" Before he could peruse the wares again, the healer held up a brooch, wrought in bronze-gilt and engraved with yet another star-shaped flower.

Éothain's eyes glinted appreciatively. "Yes." The answer was immediate, and their hands brushed as he claimed the brooch for closer inspection. "It is simple enough for her taste; she will certainly appreciate something so useful." He set it beside the hairpins.

"Might I interest my lady in a pair of inlaid combs?" The stall-owner tried again, lifting one such gold ornament to show Idrin. "If I may be so bold, it shall look lovely in your hair." He looked appealingly to Éothain.

"Perhaps some other time," the healer persisted softly.

The merchant bowed, conceding. "Would that be all, sir?" He turned to the Rider and at his affirmation wrapped hairpins and brooch in linen. "That would be three _castar_... ah" – he paused and consulted a little book – "four _scillingas_ and one _sceatt_."²

A wispy smile flitted across Éothain's mouth as he handed the Gondorian the correct sum, though Idrin could not grasp the reason – the man's pronunciation, perhaps? They left the stall and continued down the market-road, occasionally stopping at various booths to look at the wares on display. As they approached the tavern, the Rohir turned to her. "That comb would have looked lovely on you."

That kind of boldness took her by surprise, but she ought to have been used to the candour of the Horse-lords by now. "I am not very fond of gold," she replied. "It's too boisterous for my liking."

They had descented into the city's second level by then, and Éothain saw that it was largely dominated by shops: they passed a hatmaker's workshop, a lampwright's, a shoemaker's, a vintner's, an apothecary's. The largest and most imposing structure was the public bath-house, containing both heated pools and cold baths. Water was carried to them by a great covered channel built in the mountain, and warm air from furnaces beneath the floors heated them.

They paused at a side-street shop, rather removed from the main road, when something solid bumped into Éothain's leg. A ball rolled away from his foot. He squatted to pick it up.

"I think I know where this came from." Idrin looked across the street.

The two-storey building was modest and had obviously seen better days, boasting many windows and a courtyard with a scattering of green plants, all enclosed by a four-foot wall. A large group of young children, donning similar clothes in a pale tone of grey and blue, looked out as healer and Rider crossed to them, some expectantly and some with apprehension. One boy of about ten years came to the wall and accepted the ball Éothain handed to him with a little smile and a _thank-you_. The others hovered behind him, waiting to resume their game.

"Idrin!" A high voice drew the healer's attention.

The girl whom it belonged to was no more than seven years old. As she hurried to the wall, a cloth doll clutched in one hand, the hood shadowing her features fell, revealing dark hair and blue eyes. Beside Idrin, Éothain started at the sight of her left cheek and neck, covered in greyish, stiff skin.

"Hello, Lírien." The young woman managed a grin, which the child eagerly returned. "What happened to your doll?"

The girl's countenance turned doleful as she looked down at her inanimate companion, gaze lingering sadly on the torn arm. "She snagged on a bush yesterday. Mistress Tassweg and Mistress Míril didn't have time to sew her." Suddenly her eyes lit. "Could you do it? You're good with a needle."

"Of course," replied the healer and drew the gate open to join Lírien. Éothain followed slowly and stood nearby as she sat on a bench, waiting for the girl who had sped inside the large house. She reappeared promptly, presenting Idrin with needle and thread. The Rohir watched as the young woman bent to her task while the girl followed her movements with bright eyes, a strange feeling in his stomach.

Idrin held up the doll to examine her work when she finished and gave it back to a beaming Lírien.

"Will you stay?" asked the girl.

"I am afraid I can't today," she answered. "But I will try to come soon."

Lírien glanced at Éothain, realising for the first time he was there, and studied him for a moment. Then she offered a shy smile. His lips twitched in return. The healer got to her feet and explained they had to be on their way when Lírien turned to her again. She watched the girl walk towards some playmates, an expression of sorrow settling brushing her features, but when she swerved round towards the gate, it was gone.

Éothain did not break the silence until they found the main street and walked slowly to the gate descending into the first level. "The girl..."

"She suffered from the disease when she was three years old. The healers treated her as best they could so it didn't progress."

The Rider snorted. "Hardskin is a little death that only sleeps, waiting to wake again. I've seen it take many lives, and no treatment has ever cured it."

Idrin frowned. "Its progress can be checked. Yellow ginger poultice; pudding-grass in soured apple cider can help if the disease is caught early."

Éothain stared hard at her. "And what then? When those afflicted think they are rid of the disease, it smites them down again. They spread it to others. Death always comes, and it's always slow." He looked back in the direction of the orphan-house. "A swift death by blade would be kinder."

The healer stopped in her tracks and gaped at him. She had never expected such harshness from him, and it vexed her more than she could say. "Kinder?"

"It would spare them the agony of watching their bodies waste away, their limbs become numb, their fingers and toes shrivel. Who would want to live like that?" The Rohir met her gaze without flinching.

"And if it was your own child who was afflicted?"

Idrin let out a huff of exasperation and, as she wrenched her gaze from Éothain's face, suddenly noted a boy gazing at her from across the street. Curiosity took over. He appeared to be about fifteen, she reckoned, tall but well-built and not lacking in muscle. She felt a frown work its way above the bridge of her nose – his features began to seem vaguely familiar, but she could not be certain. Caught staring, the boy averted his eyes, but a moment later he threw her a furtive glance, turned away and then his eyes sought her again, uncertainly. After a few heartbeats of indecision, his hovering ended and he walked up to where she and Éothain stood.

"Mistress Healer, m'lady, we need your help." He nearly stumbled over the words, his dark eyes wide. "My master sent me – he did not know whom else to turn to." He began fumbling with his hands.

Idrin finally recognised the youth as the smith Angdan's apprentice. She had seen the boy only once or twice in passing, but she was well-acquainted with the blacksmith, as she had treated him when a heavy mallet broke his shin some months past. The boy's earnest entreaty was enough to make the heat of her disagreement with Éothain dissipate – for the moment at least. "Of course. What has happened?"

At that he glanced away and a light colour dusted his cheeks. When he met her gaze again, the look in his eyes was one of uncertainty once more. He spoke haltingly, "It is not... a person... that needs aid."

The healer started at the words, and the small crease settled between her eyes for a full second. "I have no such experience with animals," she warned him, not quite as elegantly as she would have liked, she realised a moment too late. His face fell and his expression became dejected. A twinge of guilt tugged at her. "But perhaps I can see first. If it is something simple..."

The glint in the smith-apprentice's eyes was full of hope. "Come," he beckoned, and he set off, leading the way.

* * *

¹ Stonecrop grew in Ithilien: '. . . rocky walls were already starred with saxifrages and stonecrops.' (_The Two _Towers, Book 4, Chapter IV: Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit); '. . . in the crevices of his stony hair yellow stonecrop gleamed.' (_The Two Towers_, Book 4, Chapter VII: Journey to the Cross-roads)  
Having this plant associated with Gondor, because of its growing abundantly throughout that land, is my taking creative licence. It seems fitting, since stonecrops thrive on rocky sites, and Gondor itself is, after all, named for its abundance of stone.

² Concerning coinage in Middle-earth, we know that 'In Gondor _tharni _was used for a silver coin, the fourth part of the _castar_ (in Noldorin the _canath_ or fourth part of the _mirian_).' (_The History of Middle-earth: The Peoples of Middle-earth_, Chapter II: The Appendix on Languages, _The Languages at the end of the Third Age: On Translation_)  
Pennies were used in Eriador: 'Bilbo gave a few pennies away . . .' (_The Fellowship of the Ring_, Book 1, Chapter I: An Long-expected Party); 'Bill Ferny's price was twelve silver pennies . . .' (_The Fellowship of the Ring_, Book 1, Chapter XI: A Knife in the Dark)  
Assuming that the Rohirrim would also have their own coins, I have taken the liberty of giving the name _sceatt _to any silver coin used by them, and the name _scilling _to any gold one, since silver _sceattas _and gold _scillingas _were used by the Anglo-Saxons during their early history.

Given Tolkien's medieval calquing, it is possible that he had in mind the medieval system of defining coin worth, according to which a coin had the value of the metal in it. Thus, further estimating that the fineness of precious metals in Rohirric coins might not be quite the same as in their Gondorian counterparts, I've taken another liberty of not equating the value of the silver _tharni/canath _to that of the silver _sceatt_, or the value of the probably-struck-in-gold _castar/mirian_ to that of the gold _scilling_. Instead, I have devised an exchange rate where 1 _castar _(4 _tharni_)=11 _sceattas_ and 1 _scilling_=8 _sceattas_.

Unfortunately, the only given reference to monetary value in Middle-earth concerns Bill the pony, according to which one pony is worth four silver pennies in Bree-land (_The Fellowship of the Ring_, Book 1, Chapter XI: A Knife in the Dark). I have made a feeble attempt to name commodity prices by consulting Thorold Rogers's _A History of Agriculture and Prices in England from 1259 to 1793_, and trying to convert given prices into possible Middle-earth value.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: A huge _thank-you_ to Deandra, for keeping me on my toes when it comes to proofreading and for catching those mistakes no-one else does.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Angdan's smithy was situated in the first circle, near the gate to the second level, neighboured by a carpenter's and a ropemaker's workplaces. Idrin was surprised when they passed and left it behind, having thought they would meet the blacksmith there, but before she could question the apprentice, the boy had halted. They had come to Angdan's house, and presently his apprentice led the way across the yard towards the back.

They found the blacksmith and his wife at the entrance of a newly built stable – a structure which had not been there the last time the healer had visited. The worry lines creasing the man's face smoothed somewhat when he saw her. As his eyes found Éothain, his whole countenance changed, and visible relief lit his features.

"Oh, this is beyond my hopes!" he exclaimed. Then, in a more sombre tone of self-reproach, he added, as if to himself: "How silly of me not to think of it before. The City is full of Rohirrim!"

Feeling there was something she had yet to grasp, Idrin frowned, but the blacksmith had already begun introducing himself to an equally befuddled Éothain. Hurriedly, the man extended a heavy arm behind him, shifting his position as he did so. Only then did the healer take note of a large, dark shape in the stable: a chestnut-coated horse lay in the shadows. It got up as the smith gestured, and a moment later pawed the ground.

"Rindil found her near an abandoned farmstead on the Pelennor on her way back to Minas Tirith." Angdan glanced fondly at the plump woman beside him. "There was no-one to claim the mare, and my wife did not want to leave her alone in a ravaged land, so she brought her home." The smith focused his attention on Éothain. "She's a beautiful creature, this mare. I haven't much knowledge about horses, but like Rindil, I did not want to turn her away. I've built her a stable; do what I may to feed her the best I can; but lately her behaviour's begun to change." He paused for breath and went on, "Her udder seems to have become larger and she's grown restless. Since yesterday there have been beads like wax on her teats. Today she's been shying away, walking around and looking at her flanks. Not long ago she began passing water frequently and even kicked at her belly."

The blacksmith turned a worried look on the mare which shifted her weight from one hind leg to the other and grunted. He looked back at Éothain, fear evident in his eyes. "Like I said, I know very little about horses. Is she is sick?"

Angdan then seemed to remember that Idrin was listening quietly beside the Rider. "I sent for a healer because, in my daze, I did not know what else to do. That the Rohirrim could help had completely fled my mind." He offered the words as an apology of sorts.

Idrin looked over the mare with a critical eye and approached slowly, waiting for the animal to acknowledge her presence with a stare before reaching out to stroke her shoulder. Emboldened by the acceptance, the healer ran her hands carefully over the large body and stepped back. "This is beyond my knowledge," she admitted. A visibly wounded animal she could help, but this seemed more challenging. The lack of a common tongue that people could understand complicated matters further. Keen realisation struck her at the thought: under such circumstances, it must be remarkable indeed for a person to be able to discern the internal suffering of an animal.

"She is not sick." Éothain's voice betrayed a smile, drawing all attention to him. He had gone around the mare, making an unhurried acquaintance and whispering soothing words to the animal before inspecting her hindquarters and abdomen. "She is about to foal. True, her size is smaller than commonly observed, but this is probably her first pregnancy and she is a fairly heavy-set animal. It's not very uncommon for such mares to simply look well-fed when they are in foal."

The blacksmith and his wife stared at him with undisguised surprise as he rejoined them. "Foal?" Rindil repeated, gazing at the horse. As though in affirmation to the Rider's words, the mare pawed the ground once more.

"And very soon, I daresay," replied Éothain as the animal lifted her tail. "Could you spare a couple of clean towels, madam? They may be needed. And, perhaps, something to wrap the tail in, and salve?"

Rindil nodded. "I have clean towels."

"Would a roll of bandage do for the tail?" asked Idrin, fumbling with the strings of a purse on her belt. "And this?" Along with the rolled strip of gauze, she produced a small jar containing ointment and held it up. "Marigold and orangeroot."

"They will do," Éothain assented, and the blacksmith's wife made for the house in search of towels. The Rider took the bandage and approached the mare, lulling her with soft speech as he deftly bound her tail. When he stepped away, the animal snorted and lay down once again.

Idrin felt she could laugh for the absurd simplicity of it all. The mare was pregnant and in labour. That possibility hadn't even crossed her mind. Then again, for one like her, or Angdan or Rindil, not familiar with the signs of a horse's delicate condition, coming to such a definite conclusion would be difficult. Were it a person, the healer could have read the tell-tale signs of labour easily. But to have intimate knowledge of the four-legged companion that was the horse, to know with perfect clarity what it felt and when it needed aid, was a singular thing. With arresting excitement, Idrin realised she would have liked very much to possess that kind of knowledge. Horses truly were magnificent beasts.

Near her, and still at a loss for words, Angdan glanced about and noted his young apprentice standing unobtrusively by the stable door, watching. "You are free to go home, Braignor," he addressed the boy. "I have kept you here long enough. Thank you for all your help."

The lad offered a farewell and, with a last look at the mare, strode away.

The smith turned back to Éothain. "How am I to care for a newborn foal? I would not know what to do." Anxiety laced his voice.

"You need not do much," replied the Rohir. "Simply keep the stable dry and clean, protected from harsh weather and loud noises; give the mare good-quality feed; make sure the bedding's soft. The dam will do the rest." He paused. "I will visit every day and help."

Calmed by Éothain's reassurances, Angdan felt his worry flee at the Rider's last commitment. "That would put my mind at ease, indeed."

The sound of rushing water made all eyes turn to the mare. She was on her side, legs extended as a dark shape enclosed in an almost transparent sac protruded beneath her tail. Two legs were slowly pushed out into the world. The standing company watched in silence as the dam raised her body slightly off the ground to help position her foal before easing herself down onto the straw again. Contractions were accompanied by grunts and followed by the appearance of the foal's muzzle.

Éothain had drawn Idrin nearer the wall and away from the dam, and stood there with her, knowing that a foaling mare might be stressed by the close proximity of strangers. When he cast a brief glance about him, Angdan, Rindil – clutching the towels in both hands – and the healer were gazing transfixedly at the unfolding sight. He could not suppress a small, private grin: they reminded him of small children watching a wondrous show for the first time. The Rider looked back at the mare, saw that one of the foal's shoulders had been pushed out, and turned to the blacksmith.

"Angdan, we will need clean water and soap."

Pulled out of his reverie-like state, the smith nodded and went to fetch a bucket.

Ten minutes later the foal lay on the straw, managing to lift its head as the dam shifted slowly to a sitting position. Its head freed from the suffocating membrane, the newborn flailed for some moments before the mare rose, pulling it upright and breaking the connecting sac and cord. Half an hour after that, the foal was standing on wobbly legs; the afterbirth had been passed; and the mare tended to her wet offspring.

Éothain inched closer, mindful not to cause unnecessary distress to the dam, and bent to inspect the delivered membranes. They were intact, thin, and showed no sign of abnormal colouring or bleeding spots. Satisfied, he looked over at the mare. He was pleased to note that she was calm and didn't seem to feel upset by the presence of four people nearby, two of whom were strangers.

"We need to wash her before the foal suckles, and treat the newborn's stump with salve to prevent infection."

At the Rider's words, Rindil gave one towel to her husband, and he and Idrin stepped towards the animals. They halted as the dam turned to stare at them. After a long moment, she shifted her attention back to her newborn.

"It's better not to place yourselves between the foal and the mare," the Rohir warned. "She's a gentle animal, friendly, but mares can be fiercely protective of their newborns." He did not elaborate, but he had seen many a dam pin her ears back, charge and even bite when she felt someone posed a threat to her foal, be he a stranger or not.

Angdan and the healer nodded and approached accordingly. When the smith stroked the mare and slowly crouched to clean her udder with lukewarm water, following Éothain's instructions, Idrin washed her hands and held one out to the dam, allowing her to sniff it before putting the foal between them and sitting carefully on her heels beside it. The newborn started at the close proximity, but soon turned its attention to its mother as the healer applied a thin coating of salve to the cord stump.

Éothain took to clearing away the wet straw where the mare had foaled, replacing it with new and checking the manger and water trough. Ideally, the birth should have taken place in a separate box and not where the horse was normally kept, but the stable was small and Angdan had not known the mare was pregnant. The Rider turned to the blacksmith and Idrin as they stepped away from the animals. "We should give them some peace," he said, nodding towards the mare and foal as the newborn began to suckle.

When the group of four stepped outside, they saw the light had begun to fade and the western sky was tinted with hues of pink and orange.

"Your dress is wet."

Idrin turned at the sound of Rindil's voice, and then looked down at what she wore. The sleeves and hem of her dress were stained indeed – her contact with the newborn foal had left its mark.

"You cannot go home like this," the blacksmith's wife went on. "I shall find you something to wear, and once I have washed your dress, I will send it up to the Citadel."

The healer knew she should reply but hesitated. She considered refusing – the stains weren't quite so visible in the gathering dusk, and she wasn't particularly attached to the dress, as it was an old one she had worn for working in the library. Idrin realised she was being very childish, but she had always found it strange to wear clothes that weren't her own. A childish whim indeed! She forced herself to act rationally and managed a small smile.

"Thank you," she said at last and followed Rindil inside the house.

A wide strip of pale light illuminated the horizon when she and Éothain ascended to the second level of Minas Tirith, the Rohir having promised Angdan to visit the next day. As they walked, Idrin suddenly remembered the disagreement and unfinished conversation she had with the Rider of Rohan. How easily it had fled to her unconscious mind, and how easily it had come to the forefront again! As she turned to look at the street leading to the orphan-house, the frustration she had felt before rose inside her once more, but it was more feeble. This was one conversation she wanted to finish.

"You asked me if I would do it if it was my own child."

Éothain surprised her by broaching the subject himself, before she could contemplate the best way to go about it. It was as though he could read her mind. Perhaps they thought alike, both wanting to understand each other's reasons.

"Yes, I would," the Rider continued. "If that meant sparing my child a slow death, preceded by friendlessness and gradual decay of the body and emotional pain, I would."

His firmness gave Idrin pause. "Not all those who have the disease are shunned and miserable," she said finally. She did not argue the matter of death, because she knew it was eventually inevitable. Sometimes the progress of the disease was so violent that those afflicted lived no more than a year. At other times, progress was slow, but the loss of feeling caused by hardskin led to injuries that remained unnoticed and untreated, which in turn brought infection.

"Perhaps not in great cities where some perceptions are different," returned Éothain. "But even there, the disfigurement and crippling hardskin causes eventually make people lose hope. Theirs is a drawn-out suffering."

"Even so, what right have we to decide another's fate?" The healer recognised the truth in Éothain's words, but it was difficult to believe that to deal death was kinder. "Everyone has the right to live, and with proper care discomfort can be eased and spirits can be lifted."

The Rider stared at her as their pace became slower, and took a deep breath, trying to choose his words. "You are a healer, sworn to preserve life. You find it difficult to understand that, sometimes, death is a more merciful lot than life." Was it truly so incomprehensible a notion, that death could be salvation?

Idrin came to an abrupt stop between two empty houses, and glared at him. Éothain's words struck something sensitive inside her; she took offence at the slight on her sense of comprehension. "When there are people who do not try to make things better, of course death would seem a good option." Her tone was cutting and threaded with agitation, her hands twitching at her sides. "Perhaps it is easier for you to deal death – you are a soldier after all."

Éothain tensed; his eyes flashed, and his voice was low when he spoke. "You think I enjoy taking lives?" There was indignation in his tone, the sound of a threatening storm rumbling far away as he fixed her with a steady gaze. "One can't stay passive on a battlefield!" The guttural hues of his native tongue coloured his voice as incredulity showed. It was ridiculous to think Idrin meant what she said, she who was born into a family of war-hardened men.

"And one can't stay passive when it comes to helping people heal," Idrin spoke before the Rider had the chance to voice his train of thought. "There may be no cure for hardskin, but the quality of life for those who have it can be improved. If only more people were less narrow-minded..."

"Hardskin is spread by contact; people fear for their health. How can that be narrow-mindedness?" Éothain's tone came out harsher than he had intended, but his will to rein his temper was failing.

"It is spread by _close _contact," the healer countered, her own voice growing impatient at the Rider's refusal to understand. "That does not mean that a brief, simple act of kindness will endanger healthy people. No-one should be treated like an outcast."

"They are living dead."

Idrin gaped at him. She felt as though they were spinning in circles, locked in the repeating steps of a tedious dance, going neither forward nor back. How could a person be so infuriatingly stubborn? She drew herself to her full height, her expression cooling. "It seems we can make neither head nor tail of this." Her voice was flat; she strove to keep it even. "It would be best if this discussion ended now." Before Éothain could speak, her feet had carried her away towards the marketplace.

He blew out a breath and forced a hand through his hair, pride holding him immobile in the shadow of the abandoned houses. How could she not understand the dire danger hardskin posed? Contact with those afflicted equalled peril; contracting the disease meant death. And whether it came slowly or not, death was always preceded by suffering. Surely strong poppy tea or a swift blade would be more merciful?

Ahead of him, Idrin stalked away determinedly, her hands clenched into fists. She turned sharply at the voice calling her, eyes blazing. A moment too late, the healer's features smoothed when her vision cleared and she saw the flinching stall-owner. A twinge of guilt pricked at her: she had no right to inflict her negative emotions on undeserving bystanders.

Collecting himself, the burly man handed her a small, rough bundle. "I have something for Espig."

Idrin had recovered enough of her manners to offer a warm _thank-you_ and bid him a pleasant evening. Around them, the marketplace was emptying swiftly, merchants gathering their wares and taking down their stalls for the night.

A fair distance behind the healer, Éothain still hovered by the empty dwellings. A hand drummed insistently against his leg, tapping out a vexing rhythm. His gaze was focused on Idrin, but his thought roamed back to their argument. The more he stood there, the more his posture relaxed. Finally, his tight jaw unclenched and his frantic tapping slowed to a stop. He let out a deep breath and started forward reluctantly.

The healer in front of him did not seem to hear his nearing footsteps. Making her way alone towards the upper circles of the city, her haunting thoughts had returned, but the emotions they evoked were less potent. Her rational mind had taken over, and a cooler evaluation of what had taken place began. As long seconds passed, Idrin came to realise that not all Éothain had said during their heated discourse was illogical. Thinking back on the instances of intolerable pain and suffering and loss of dignity she had witnessed as a healer, she began to understand his notion concerning the mercy of death. The realisation made her feel ashamed of her earlier outburst.

She could not recollect ever having spoken in anger before: she had always opted to keep herself calm and think before speaking, knowing that words uttered in the heat of a moment were more often than not unjust. Sobered, her brisk pace slowed. How easily her self-control had fled! With a shake of her head, she suppressed a groan and closed her eyes, bringing her dragging feet to a halt. Éothain was standing a few paces from her when she finally took a deep breath and turned.

She was the first to speak. "I'm sorry. There are indeed cases when life is more burden than blessing." The healer raised her eyes to his and her voice softened. "But I don't think we have the right to make such choices for others."

Éothain gave an unconscious nod. She was insistent about stressing her opinion, yet it seemed she had come to comprehend part of his own thought as well. He could reciprocate that understanding. "I have been rather obstinate myself," he admitted. "I should not be so quick to pass judgement. People with hardskin should be treated with more kindness." He paused for breath but said no more.

Idrin noted the instant of minute hesitation and waited. When he did not speak again, she decided to simply acknowledge the fact he had – for the most part – made an effort to understand her mind a little better. The two of them might not be in complete agreement, but they had made concessions. That was a promising beginning. Feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her, Idrin motioned towards the gate leading to the fourth level and he fell into step beside her.

The shadows and coolness of evening had already enveloped them when they reached the townhouse on the fifth level. As the healer shifted the bundle she held, Éothain eyed it curiously: he had seen what had taken place in the market. "What is that?"

Idrin's response was cut short as her tabby kitten ran to greet them. A small nose sniffed persistently at the rough bundle, and the healer undid the knot securing it, emptying the contents in a bowl by the front door. Espig began devouring the tender fish remains eagerly.

The young woman straightened and turned to Éothain. "You will stay for supper?" It was both an enquiry and an assertion.

The Rider nodded and followed her inside, glad their previous argument appeared to have left no lasting trace.


End file.
